


her beauty calls to me

by chininja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, May/December Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sansa marries a different Lannister, Tywin's POV, Unprocessed Grief, but also smut and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chininja/pseuds/chininja
Summary: He doesn’t know when it happened, or how it began, but Tywin finds that Sansa has casually, steadily ingrained herself in his life. Perhaps even the Northern girl hadn’t noticed herself, but no matter how brash, crude, or callous Tywin was in his words and actions towards her, she came back just as slowly, tentatively. She took every abrasiveness he dealt her as a lesson, moving back towards his orbit as though there were some gravitational pull only she was privy to.





	her beauty calls to me

**Author's Note:**

> TySan is the crack ship of my heart - it's what initially got me settled into the fandom. I've not read the books and have only encountered Charles Dance's Tywin, so I hope that this isn't too out of character. But I enjoyed getting into his psyche and the conflict of what it was like for him to have Joanna and then Sansa for wife.

_Come back to bed,_ she tells him - eyes soft with sleep, her arm extended as though to reach for him.

It is a strange thing to be told so, Tywin certainly hasn’t heard it from his bed mates over the years, not even Joanna begged for him to sleep at the same time she took her rest. She knew who she married, his first wife. She understood that while he cared for his family, he cared for his legacy more. And that work never stops.

It is not the first time she reaches for him, Tywin surmises it will not be the last, but it certainly still surprises him that she does. He never thought of her beyond her use - _Sansa Stark, key to the North_ \- even the bloody wench knew it was the reason he kept her under his protection. (She was meant to be for Tyrion, but even in the only thing he seemed to excel, the little Imp was still a disappointment to him - refusing to bed the girl grown from some misguided sense of honor.

What is honor, by the way, if not an obstacle to his goals?

There is no honor in conquest, no honor in war.

Why should there be in bedding a girl who was already his property?)

Sansa Stark was a means to an end, that was all. Yet Tywin failed to account her cleverness. He was surprised by the calculation he has witnessed in her eyes, how she takes in information, digests them, and files them away until such a time she may need it. How her courtesies _never_ failed, no matter how boorish his idiotic grandson became, his sycophants acting much the same. Or how Cersei never failed to show the varying degrees of malice she was capable of towards the girl. Sansa wore her courtesies like Tywin wore his armor, and much like the metal he dons on his person, no chink can be found in hers.

She was unflappable where his daughter thought her insipid. Everyone underestimated Sansa Stark, Tywin included, but he knew weeks into their marriage she would come out far more capable and cunning than Cersei could hope to be. His wife would emerge resilient every time.

He married her for her claim, witnessing her growth was simply an added bonus.

The Old Lion moves away from his desk, and in a brief show of affection, he hovers and leaves a lingering kiss on his wife’s forehead. _Sleep, Sansa_ , he tells her, voice uncharacteristically gentle. _I’ll be with you soon_. (This is another thing that he never thought to still have room for in his life. He wasn’t a kind man when he met Joanna, and what she tried to nurture in him died when she did. To be able to do so with this slip of a girl, Tywin almost fools himself into thinking that this show of tenderness might just be a little sincere.)

His wife’s hand, smooth as porcelain, finds its way into his robe. Her fingers run through the golden curls on his chest before they settle on his nape, pulling him closer to her. Tywin’s own hand makes its way to her cheek, allowing himself a caress before he moves to straighten himself, but finds that his delicate little wife is stronger than she looks. _Come back to bed_ , she whispers against his mouth, her nose nuzzling at his jaw. If he were the smiling sort, Tywin would’ve given her a soft one. The amusement is there, but the only kind he can produce is a small upturn of his mouth. _In a minute,_ is all he says instead.

He pries her hand away from his neck and rubs circles at the back of it before placing it on her side. When he sees her eyes flutter to a close once more, her Tully face smoothing out into a restful slumber, Tywin gives himself leave to return to the missives that require his attention.

Members of his court, his _children_ would surely think him weak should they witness him being so carefree of his affection in the privacy of his chambers, _yet -_  

Tywin Lannister does not concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.

And he knows damn well that the sheep fear _him_ and consider _him_ their king despite the pin on his chest.

He looks through scrolls of parchments organizing them according to their importance and urgency, making sure to burn those that no other should see - most of all his wife. The Old Lion doesn’t waste time dwelling on whether perhaps he should call back orders he has given to the Freys and Boltons. He has always been a ruthless man, especially in war and the North _will_ be taken to heel. Stark wife or not, his mind will not change in this. The die has been cast, it is only a matter of waiting for events to unfold.

He reaches for his quill and works on responding to the letters given to him, but leans back against his chair before he dips it in the ink. Throughout his life, he has never been the kind to doubt himself or even consider who he would have to step on in order to achieve his objectives. He has always been concerned with the family name, a value he worked so hard to instill in his children. Everything he has done was so that no other would dare to underestimate the Lannister name, that it was a name that would outlive him, and that this name would be the only thing that matters.

Tywin leans his head back, eyes staring at nothing as his mind wanders and takes him to memories of Joanna he hasn’t permitted himself to leaf through in decades. His Joanna - who was fierce as she was kind, who was every bit the lioness when it came to her children, who was merciless in her own way. She never tried to change him into something he was not, never told him to reconsider nor showed distrust in his decisions. She listened and asked questions when something wasn’t clear to her. But she never played at being his conscience.

Joanna understood him, and if Tywin were to permit himself to be honest, it was this particular quality of his first wife he missed the most. Joanna was his partner in every way, his equal, someone who knew how to anticipate his needs and know _why_ he needed them.

His children never understood, and he never let them.

Her death meant his isolation from the rest.

She took the best part of him when she died - and there was already so little to begin with - that Tywin coped the only way he knew how. He immersed himself in matters concerning the realm, and then Casterly Rock, always keeping one step ahead of everyone else in the game.

He took his grief and buried it with her, inevitably planting seeds of bitterness instead, growing and nurturing it until it came to wrap its vines around his heart in a cage. Tywin isn’t one for sentiment, and he’s been told that he was a heartless bastard often enough (and always behind his back), not once bothered by it. He is what he is, and has become so out of necessity and an esteemed view of his abilities. Pride has always been a part of him, an anger that seems to be constantly simmering right behind it.

He drops his quill, opting to close his eyes in an attempt to stave of the deluge of memories that seek to overpower him. Joanna’s smile that leaned on the side of mischief. Joanna’s eyes that sparkled as though there’s something she knows she can’t wait to tell him. The way she would squeeze his hand under the table during meals, how she would rub small circles on the parts of his body she could reach while in bed. The way her scent lingered in every room and in everything she touched.

Then in his mind’s eye, a flash of _red_.

Eyes so blue and clear it was as though he were gazing at the sky.

A slow smile here.

A tentative touch there.

A whisper of a kiss on his brow, his cheeks, his lips.

He doesn’t know when it happened, or how it began, but Tywin finds that Sansa has casually, steadily ingrained herself in his life. Perhaps even the Northern girl hadn’t noticed herself, but no matter how brash, crude, or callous Tywin was in his words and actions towards her, she came back just as slowly, tentatively. She took every abrasiveness he dealt her as a lesson, moving back towards his orbit as though there were some gravitational pull only she was privy to. It dawns on him then that she is as much a part of him as he is a part of her.

 _I am his, and he is mine_ _\- smooth soft hands, trembling in his_.

_I am hers, and she is mine - battle roughed hands, firm in hers._

He meant every word when he married Joanna, and Tywin is finding that he is starting to mean them with Sansa as well. And _that_ is a thought that stops him dead. Because while the Old Lion can be honest enough to admit that it is easy to be fond of the girl, he is also aware that should he examine himself, this fondness that he feels is just a slip and a push away from turning into something more. He isn’t prepared, Tywin. He has loved one woman so fully in all his life, he isn’t certain there is room for another one.

It is a thought that stirs something in him, a feeling he doesn’t care to name. He does wonder what Joanna would say or how she would react. Tywin isn’t sure he wants to know, so he puts the thought away and pushes the revelation of his sprouting feelings for Sansa out of cognition, closing his eyes once more. They are too much emotions for an old man to handle.

Feet pad across the stone floor, then a small hand that rests on his shoulder used to steady herself until she is in his lap straddling him, the other clutching the sheet close to her breast in false modesty, her head on the crook of his neck.

 _Come back to bed,_ she murmurs into his skin, hers warmed by the comforts of their bed, her lips light as a whistle against his neck.

Tywin slowly wraps his arms around her, the sheet the only thing that inhibits him from touching her bare back. Sansa’s hair is unbound, and the Old Lion takes advantage of it as he combs his fingers through her waves. He opens his eyes and is mesmerized by the strands in his hand so much like the burning sun that sets over Casterly Rock.

 _I told you to wait for me in bed,_ he whispers in her hair, getting whiffs of the lavender oil she brushed through it earlier. Sansa hums and releases a sigh he feels at the base of his throat. _You took too long,_ she tells him, pulling away from him a little to brush the back of her hand against his brow. There is a crease on her cheek from the pillow Tywin can’t help but touch, swiping with his thumb as though to make it disappear.

Sansa closes her eyes at the gesture, turning her face to nose at his palm before lightly pressing a kiss to it. _Comb back to bed,_ she says once more, _it can wait until the morning_ . She adjusts herself in his lap, moving closer to his crotch. _I sleep better when you’re near._ A tiny confession, her proximity to his body an invitation for something more.

Tywin takes it as one.

She smiles in return.

Their mouths meet, slowly at first, dancing a waltz they eventually became familiar with. Tywin cups her jaw, tilts his head to deepen the kiss, Sansa responding immediately with a swipe of her tongue. It is a languid pace they have set, a give and take, both breathing through their nose neither one wanting to break away from each other. (Here is another thing that Tywin didn’t think to happen again, to find physical enjoyment in this act of intimacy. A pragmatic man, he engages in intercourse as a release more than anything else.)

Sansa mewls when he sucks at her tongue lightly, teeth nipping at her lower lip, and she presses herself impossibly closer to him as though to merge her body with his. She is a restless one, rocking lightly against him, her center rubbing against his hardening cock in a manner that makes Tywin growl under his breath. His hands move to her hips and pulls her hard so that he rubs himself firmly against her, her gasp and moan matching his.

She has lost her grip on the sheet, both of her hands now wrapped around his neck, so that it has pooled at her waist and her breasts now bare to his heated gaze. Her hands move to the tie of his robe, deft hands untangling the knot he placed. _Take it off_ , she tells him breathlessly, hair just slightly disheveled and  looking far too much like a siren meant to tempt him. And he follows her wordlessly, as if in a trance, taking one sleeve off then another until he too is bared to the waist.

There is an ease to her actions that wasn’t there in the early months of their marriage. A quiet confidence in the way she rubs her palms on his chest as she drags her nails down, his nipples pebbling at her attention, hers too at the weight of his gaze. She has been quite adept at attending to his pleasure, and Tywin so does enjoy to see her writhe and squirm under his deft hands (or mouth, or cock - whatever she needs). Her hands continue on a path down until they stop at the laces of his breaches, her eyes peeking through dark lashes as though she doesn't know what her touch does to him.

Tywin's hands move up from her hips until they settle on her ribs, his thumbs a sweep away from the swell of her teats. He cups one in his hand, she grasps him in return, loosely at first and then gripping him before rubbing her thumb lightly - teasingly - at the head of his prick. She sets a slow rhythm at first, light touches that are almost nothing, but then she licks at her palm before putting her hand on him once more. Not to be outdone, Tywin bows his head so that he exhales on the pale tip of her nipple before his tongue darts out to flick at it and Sansa sighs in return. He gives a firmer drag of his tongue before his mouth encloses on her peak and sucking lightly until her rhythm falters and her hips start to roll urgently, seeking friction.

 _She is beautiful like this,_ he thinks to himself as he guides her hand to his cock, prompting her to start again, while his other hand moves to where she is steadily getting wetter. The circling of his thumb over her nub matches the circling on his tongue over her other teat. She is panting now, the flush in her cheeks creeping down to her chest and stopping just shy of where his mouth is. _Tywin,_ she calls out to him, eyes lidded and mouth wet. _I need you,_ she bites at her lip to stifle her cry but seems to remember who she is with and where they are before she becomes uninhibited. _Please, my lord,_ she cups his jaw - whether to urge him or get him to stop, he isn’t sure. _Take me to bed, Tywin._

And how can he refuse such a plea? He is only one man, and he finds no reason to deny himself.

Sansa instantly wraps her legs around his waist when he stands, her sheet falling to the ground, his robe pooling on his chair. Not one to remain idle, Sansa plants kisses on his jaw, nuzzling his cheek and uncaring of the scratch of his beard. It is a short walk from his desk to their chamber, but the way that his wife is using _his_ body to chase _her_ pleasure made it feel much longer. The moment he settles her at the end of the bed, she moves to pull his breeches down but he stops her. He pushes her lightly instead, until her back hits the mattress and he is between her legs, his mouth at the apex of her thighs. With her hand reaching for his head, the last view Tywin sees before he loses himself in her musk is the valley between her breasts.

At the drag of his tongue, Tywin savors the taste of his wife. He takes his time too, every touch and lick designed to tease, before he pays attention to her nub. Sansa’s hand tightens against his nape the moment he dips into her entrance where her slick pools and her taste is stronger. Her hips are straining for more, but he throws his arm over them, determined to pleasure her at his own pace. _Tywin,_ she whines, and gods be good, but the old Lannister almost thinks that his wife’s voice makes his cock throb on command.

He doubles his efforts then, whether for her sake or his, it no longer matters. All Tywin focuses on are the sounds she emits, her hand on his neck, and the scent of her that seems to engulf him. Deciding that his knees could no more bear the cold stone floor, he sucks on her nub relentlessly - inserting a finger for good measure - until she starts to spasm and he feels her clench around his digit. He doesn’t give her a moment to catch her breath. He simply loosens the laces of his breeches further before he enters her in one fluid motion, sealing his mouth over hers. He has no more of the patience from earlier when he had his mouth on her. It is his pleasure now that he seeks, and if he were to use the string of pleas that have come out of Sansa’s mouth as his proof, Tywin thinks his wife has no complaints about it.

Sansa scratches at his back, the sweat rolling down making it sting. But it grounds him, he thinks, otherwise his mind will start to wander. He feels her hand move to cup his jaw, _I’m right here,_ she tells him. _Come back to me._ It is not a command, but Tywin does wonder when his wife has become more attuned to his moods and the workings of his mind. He clutches her side in response, words already failing him.

He spills inside her when her walls start to flutter then clench around him, riding out his climax by thrusting shallowly, slowly until he comes to a halt and their breathing is all he can hear in their chambers.

 _We could’ve been doing this much sooner, had you gone to bed earlier like I told you to,_ she is pure bliss and cheek, traits that he would find insolent were it to come from any other. But as he is soon learning about his wife, and evidently about himself - there is room for growth, for change, and perhaps even a new love.

 _Sleep now,_ he says to her, voice still hoarse after the exertion he put himself through.

 _As you say, husband._ She reaches for him, impossibly tactile, placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

Tywin used to reach for Joanna, when they were abed, her touch giving him a sense of security. He finds that with Sansa, he does much the same. And despite the intimacy that they just shared with each other, he isn’t certain he would ever be comfortable to have _another Joanna_ in his life.

 _But then,_ a voice that sounds eerily like his first wife echoes in his mind just as he was to take his rest, _mayhaps it is fortuitous that it isn’t another Joanna,_ the voice reprimands him.

_But a thoroughly unique Sansa._

**Author's Note:**

> I am [ chininja](https://chininja.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


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